Remembrance of Life
by midnight-blue
Summary: Perhaps we're all lost. WIP.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Rememberance of Life 

Author: Kristin 

Rating: PG-13 to R (possibly) 

Disclaimer: They're not mine, wish they were, Hank owns them and I love him for it 

A/N: Thanks to Dev for the awesome feedback and enthusiasm, and help choosing the title. And, as always, to Maple Street for being the best forum ever! I'd be lost without you guys. Enjoy! 

Summary: Perhaps we're all lost. WIP. 

***** 

This has been my life; I found it worth living.   
-Bertrand Russell 

***** 

I see them in my dreams. I see the posters on the makeshift shrines, the hastily scribbled names slightly blurred by tearstains on old paper, the edges taped, the words fading. I see the phone numbers, the names of loved ones, the faces so hauntingly and perfectly preserved forever in a photograph. I see the silent pleas in the ribbons and the flowers and the way they grip my shoulder when they beg me once more to find their daughter, their son, husband, wife, sister, brother. 

They all have names and faces and some of them never come back. 

I see them on the shrine where the Twin Towers once rose majestically above a flawed city, a flawed nation, providing a beacon of hope no one thought to notice until they were gone. I see their faces in my dreams, the ones that went to work, got on a plane, and never came home. I see them, because my job is to find people who are lost. I see them because they couldn't be found. 

I see Annie's poster on a tree, tarnished by rain and dirt and wind. She never came home either, so some nights, she meets me by that same tree with that umbrella she carried with her, asking me if I'd care to use it. 

I hear the gunshot as Barry Mashburn's voice breaks in a solemn observance of his wife. I feel the sting as the bullet slides through muscle and tissue and hits bone, sending me to the ground. I feel myself shake, feel the cold liquid seep through my fingers and around my knuckles, staining my skin, my clothes. 

I see that lonely street where those buildings once stood, where I used to walk and think about Jack and why I couldn't love him and why I couldn't stop. I see the plane hit and the building shake and feel that same pull on my heart that I can't ever escape. I feel the lives of those lost, those that won't come back. I think of them all. 

I see them because they're lost. 

I see them because I'm not sure I want to be found. 

* 

"You're not sleeping well." 

"No." 

"Why do you think that is?" 

Her notebook rests comfortably in her lap, her pen idly poised above it as she prepares to make notes on my answer, analyze the way I raise my eyebrow and fold my hands and tuck my hair behind my ear. 

"I keep seeing it in my dreams." 

The bookstore. Barry Mashburn. 

"The bookstore? Why do you think you dream about it?" 

Her tone is condescending and I inwardly curse Jack for ordering me to see this patronizing grandmother whose concern for me ends when I write my check and walk out the door. 

"Because I got shot. I thought I was going to die." 

"And that scares you?" 

I force back a laugh. No, I'm happily awaiting the day when my life ceases to exist. In fact, maybe I'll reach for my gun and shoot myself right now. Couldn't be worse than this little farce. 

"Yes, it scares me." 

She looks at me for a moment, through me. It's unnerving, though strangely reassuring. As though I have a right to feel the way I do. 

"Our time's almost up, but I'm going to write a prescription for some sleeping pills and next week, we're going to talk about your fears." 

This time I laugh as my hand weakly meets hers in a shake. 

"That'll be a short visit." 

"Well, you might just be surprised." 

I shrug inwardly and pay my money, looking at the other patients as I leave. They flip the pages of some old magazines, paying half-attention to the stories and focusing more on the pictures of people they wish they could be, blissfully unaware of life around them. 

Perhaps we're all lost. 

* 

At any given time, any given moment, there's always at least one person in my life that I miss. Somedays I'm not even fully aware of it, while others leave me with a dull ache in my heart. It varies, of course, depending on the circumstances and the time of day, the month, the weather even. 

Winter makes me think of my brother, mostly because we seemed most content when the snow allowed us hours away from the confines of our cold, empty house. I miss, I suppose, the snowball fights and sled races, the hot chocolate we'd bum off of Mrs. Sullivan. Hell, I even miss Mrs. Sullivan, whose old, wrinkled face sometimes tightens my scarf even still, like a ghost. 

Summer reminds me of my mother. Her homemade lemonade is still fresh in my mind. It was a perfect combination of lemons and sugar and a little touch of love, she used to say. Sweet and sentimental, my mother. 

And all other days in between, well, I mostly miss Jack. He's still around, still at work and home. But I miss what we were, what we might be. I wonder if you can miss what you can't even have. 

He haunts my dreams as well; haunts the bookstore and the coffee shop, and that little deli down the street. Invades the space of normal life I've established slowly and surely; he comes into those places I've built to escape him, reminding me that I never will. 

* 

The limp is barely noticeable to those who spare a casual glance in my direction on the off chance I might smile at them or have a drink with them or become one of those early morning indecisions for a brief second before they shrug off their regrets and head to work. 

Jack's hand is covering his eyes, a sign of defeat and loss, and I notice suddenly a certain gold wedding band is missing from the fourth finger. I know its place like the inside barrel of my standard issue government gun. He pulls his glasses from his eyes and dangles them in midair for a brief moment before setting them down and glancing up at me as I lean on the doorway. 

"Trying to decide what to order for lunch?" 

I try to keep it light because I know what's about to come and I'm suddenly thankful for the solid support beneath my left shoulder. 

"It's over." 

My breath catches and releases softly. I've heard this before in a different time, a different place. I wonder guiltily if it's enough to hope what I think it is has finally transpired. 

"Jack-" 

"We're getting a divorce." 

I don't know what to say. I love you, Jack. I need you, Jack. Why did we do this? Why did we stop? Why can't it be simple, and why can't I say goodbye? 

"I-" 

"We tried, you know. It just -- God, I don't know how to do this." 

His hands shake for a second and he stares at them as if all the answers will magically appear in the aging lines between his thumb and forefinger. 

"It's hard, Sam. It's hard to let go of what you have." 

It's hard to hold on to what you don't. 

My voice fails me and we can only stare at one another, both of us waiting for the other to speak, waiting for a confirmation of wrongdoing or positive reinforcement for the future. All I can think at the moment, all my frenzied brain can suddenly process is this one thought. 

I have nothing left to give. 

* 

TBC... 


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: My gratitude to Dev for her feedback on this before I posted. You rock, as always! 

Chapter Two: 

I try to remember the exact moment when I fell in love with him. Maybe it doesn't exist on any certain plane of reality; maybe it's suspended above the flaws of my own soul, hiding beneath the surface and appearing, just as it did, when I least expect it. That's how I fell in love with Jack. 

I suddenly started to forget the smaller, minute details of my work and the simple life I'd built around it. I suddenly felt largely and completely part of something that, at one time, I felt would give me nothing more than an ounce of temporary pleasure. Suddenly it became more than that. I felt bonded to a man beyond any normal realm of logic or thought. It became about not just the physical pleasure, but the mental pleasure as well. 

So love came on the intake of breath and wrapped around the part of my heart I'd promised to never open again. 

Love, elusive as it had always been, engulfed me and overtook my senses, making me believe that this moment of joy could last forever. My life became about wanting Jack and needing Jack, and soon, having to reconcile the fact that he could never be mine. So I've been steadily picking up the pieces to my shattered soul, despondent and disillusioned, clinging to a sliver of hope that my existence still lies somewhere within him and he need only to brush against my cheek in a certain way and all the pieces will fall back into place. 

* 

"Stephanie Beckett, age 27. Her husband, Kyle, came home from work, his wife was gone, he hasn't seen or heard from her since. She's been gone 18 hours now." 

"What's the husband's story?" 

Danny's voice rumbles behind my ear as his hand, resting comfortably on my shoulder, guides me to a seat at the conference table. Before I can protest, I'm sitting as close to Jack as I can get without our bodies physically touching. It's too close now, too close than I want to be. So I fake a smile to Danny as he reassures himself once more that I'm in no pain, and refocuses his attention to this new case at hand. I work on processing the information and deflecting Jack's unnerving gaze. 

"He's a regular guy, job as a bartender. So far, no reason to suspect he had anything to do with her disappearance, but keep your eyes open. Viv, I want you and Martin to question the neighbors, the doorman, anyone in or around their apartment complex who might've seen anything suspicious. Danny, I want you to talk to the manager at the restaurant where he works, talk to his coworkers, get some background on this guy." 

"Samantha, we're going to question Mr. Beckett." 

Everyone stands and nods in affirmation of their appointed tasks. I wait for Jack's attention to leave my face before standing on my suddenly stiff leg. His arm goes beneath mine in support and I try for a moment to think of a way I can shrug him off without being impolite. 

* 

"Mr. Beckett, do you have a happy marriage?" 

His head shoots up from his previously hunched position, and he throws me a glare. 

"What kind of question is that?" 

"It's a relevant one. We just have to explore all the possibilities." 

"And one of those possibilities involves me having something to do with this, is that right?" 

"Mr. Beckett-" 

"Jesus Christ, can't a man be innocent until proven guilty anymore?" 

"Sir, I haven't accused you of anything. Now, if you want us to help your wife, you're going to need to cooperate with me. I'll ask again, do you have a happy marriage?" 

Jack appears in the doorway suddenly, catching my gaze and silently asking if he needs to interfere. I silently respond with a 'no' and wait as Kyle Beckett's face drowns once more beneath his hands as he laughs bitterly for a second before resurfacing once again. 

He sighs and responds, "What's happy anyway? I -- geez, I don't know. We've been having problems. She uh, she's been really angry with me the last few weeks." 

"Why is that sir?" 

"I was -- I did something stupid, you know? We've been working on it and I just -- you don't think she would've left, do you?" 

My eyes wander over the photographs adorning the walls, the timeline of a family from its beginning to its middle, through to its uncertain end. The canvas is painted with smiling newlyweds, proud parents, good times, and happy memories and places I've never been. I rest upon the figure of a little six-year-old girl, her face a mixture of sadness and worry, half visible from the shadows as she hides herself against a wall near her bedroom. I look at that child and the mother in the pictures whose joy must solely lie within the heart of this little girl. 

So I answer with the only truth I can think of. "No sir, I don't believe she would." 

* 

"How are the kids?" I ask. 

"Better, you know, but it's gonna take some time. For all of us." 

I can't possibly know, but I nod anyway. 

He pauses, waiting possibly for a reassurance, then turns to the whiteboard, scribbling some little tidbit beneath the smiling face of Stephanie Beckett. I lean against the window, staring out upon the expanse of the city. It scares me because I suddenly forget that the Towers are gone. I start to look for them in the skyline until I realize that they're never coming back. I don't hear his voice at first; it's muffled and foggy, but suddenly, it breaks through; concerned and worried and growing urgent. 

"Samantha?" 

He's behind me, so close his breath raises the hairs on my neck, and his hand brushes against my skin, bringing me back. 

"Do you think Nicole was scared?" 

"Who?" 

We've had so many cases and so many names it's easy to forget just one single life. All of them were scared in some fraction of the word. All of them want to go home at some point, in some form. So it's easy to forget because so many are lost. It's easy to forget just one name. But I don't. Not ever. Not anymore. And certainly not hers. 

"Nicole Mashburn. Do you think she was scared, do you think she knew she was going to die?" 

"No. It was quick, Sam. She wasn't scared." 

I can hear the slight uncertainty in his voice as he struggles to convince not only me, but himself of a lie we all hope is truth. 

It was quick. 

We spend our whole lives becoming certain people, growing into personalities, bonding to faces around us. We build a life and hopes and dreams and futures so fallible we can't even see the precarious line we walk with mortality until it's too late. Death is a thought, at least once to everyone; the hour of it, the day, the circumstances. We spend years building up to it and in mere seconds, minutes, it's over. 

It was quick. 

Suddenly I remember my leg, being trapped in that bookstore. It was hours, at least, hours I waited, alone, scared. I was scared, much like I worry Nicole would've been, Annie would've been, and Anwar Samir as he stared down the barrel of a gun. I was scared and it wasn't quick. I prayed for a release, an end, a resolution of some kind. I would've taken anything to escape the uncertainty, wondering if my next breath would be my last. 

It wasn't quick. 

I was scared. She was scared. 

I hope to God she wasn't alone. 

* 

"So you loved him." 

"Yes." 

"Do you still love him?" 

I think of the bookstore and my time in the hospital after it. I think of the wait, hoping he would come. I think of his divorce, his sudden freedom. I wonder if you reach a point where you can no longer hold on. 

"I don't know." 

"Do you think about him?" 

"I try not to." 

"Why?" 

"Because I can't have him. Procedures and conduct codes-" 

"Shouldn't love mean more than that?" 

"Maybe it should." 

"Do you think it means more to him?" 

I wish it could mean more. But then we'd both have to sacrifice a job that holds its own depth beyond the disappointment of love. 

"I wish it did." 

* 

"I saw the therapist today." 

His head comes up from his desk. 

"You did?" 

"She asked me about love." 

"And?" 

My turn to laugh bitterly. "It was a short conversation. And depressing." 

"I don't know what to say." 

"If either of us did would we be in this place right now, Jack?" 

"No." 

He wants to say more, he always does. Words are petty sometimes, though. Inadequate and hollow. The sadness in his eyes tells me enough. This is going to be hell. 

* 

TBC... 


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to D, you rock! And to Maple Street, the best forum EVER!! 

Chapter Three: 

_"My cousin was in the North Tower..."_

He's got a signature walk, it seems, for each of his moods. When he's angry, he sort of marches in an uncontrolled stagger; when he's amused, he walks with this almost cocky air about him, like a weight's been lifted from his shoulders; when he's sad, well, that's the only time he tends not to greet the world head-on, preferring to fluctuate instead on looking halfway between Heaven and Hell; when he's in love, he's got this full body happiness, this subtle, faint smile, this glow beneath his pupils, and this walk like he doesn't care where he's going, as though the only thing his mind can process is the simple act of being in love. 

I've seen all these walks at different times and different degrees and sometimes I see them without even looking. The latter, however, has been absent from view for quite some time. I would see it at night when we'd sneak away, when I thought for a time maybe he was mine. I saw it when he walked in that bookstore, the way his voice yelled for me, like a blind rage, the way he clumsily assured Barry he was carrying nothing, the way he stumbled as he lifted me and breathed against my soul. For a moment, he really was mine. For a moment, I saw that walk, that look in his eyes. 

I don't know if he realizes it. Maybe he wants me to know. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's not even aware of it. But he's walking towards me with a file in his hand, sliding it across the table to me. I could've sworn I saw the walk, the walk I've waited to see, for just a brief instant. 

And maybe I should stop dwelling on the past. 

"This Mr. Beckett matches a description of one of the perps at a bank robbery over in Buffalo a few weeks back." 

"So you think he's the guy." 

"I know he is." 

I flip through the surveillance photos, praying it isn't him, but the evidence doesn't lie. 

"You think the wife knew?" 

_"...he got out..."_

He nods, touching his tongue to his lip like he usually does when the pieces of the puzzle start falling into place. 

"There's more. Get this, the wife worked at the bank that the husband robbed." 

"You're kidding? Why would he do that?" 

Jack grabs the papers, stuffing them hastily back into the folder, and smiles. 

"That's what we're gonna find out." 

_"...he's never been the same..."_

* 

"I didn't know, honestly, I didn't. We just -- God, we needed the money so bad, and some buddies came to me about a week before the robbery, wanted to know if I wanted in. They -- they wouldn't tell me where it was, only when, and what to bring. I just -- God --" 

His hands shake and he runs them through his hair over and over again. 

"I got there and there she was and I just froze. She looked at me and said my name and they pulled a gun on her, but I -- I talked them down, said she wouldn't tell. We got away and they threatened her, my daughter, me. Then they called about a week ago, said they were worried, it didn't sit right with them, and I needed to take care of it. Shit -- they wanted me to kill her. So they took her, they just -- they just took her..." 

Sometimes I think my life isn't so bad. 

"Mr. Beckett, you realize the seriousness of this?" 

He can only nod. "Do you think -- do you think they'll kill her?" 

"If they don't get what they want...yes." 

* 

"Who played Michael Corleone in _The Godfather_?" 

"Al Pacino." 

"How'd you get that?" 

"I have seen the movie, believe it or not." 

"You're a girl." 

"Since when has that stopped me before?" 

Danny shrugs and pops another peanut in his mouth, leaning further against the seat of the car as we watch the Becketts' house. Stakeouts are highly overrated. 

"Besides, your adoration for Al Pacino isn't exactly a closely guarded secret." 

"Says the girl who fawns over Brad Pitt." 

"He's sexy, Danny, I'm completely justified --" 

"I would think someone of your caliber could pick a classier actor to focus her attention on. It's so cliche." 

"And this conversation has gotten entirely too advanced for 3 a.m." 

Danny leans back, chewing loudly as he sighs. "This is going to be a long night." 

* 

"Do you think about it?" 

_"I wasn't gonna shoot you..."_

His youthful voice floats across the telephone and I pause as I write. A brief respite from the case, a moment to collect myself, and here I am talking to Ted, a painful reminder of an experience I'd rather forget. 

_"You've got her job now..."_

"Sometimes, yeah. I guess." 

I pause. 

"Yeah, Ted, I do think about it." 

All the time. 

I can hear his hesitancy. He's young and heartbreakingly innocent in so many ways. His eagerness to help when I first saw him, his youthful exuberance, was almost contagious despite what I knew could soon turn into a dangerous situation. I would've given anything to shield him from it. To shield them all. 

"I think about him, sometimes, you know? I don't think he was really that bad, I think...I think he just really missed his wife." 

_"She was so wonderful..."_

"I think he always will." 

"Did you lose someone, Sam?" 

He's taken to calling me by that cherished nickname the last few months, and I always bite my tongue before denying him the comfort of what he's grown to believe is our friendship. I like Ted. I just wish I didn't meet him the way I did. 

I change the subject for many reasons. Because the answer's always harder than the question. 

"Have you heard from Fran lately? I think she's the lead in a new play." 

His voice picks up, forgetting just as quickly that I ignored his previous question. 

"Yeah, yeah. She called me a few weeks ago. It's opening next month. Want to go with me?" 

I smile briefly. "I don't know that far ahead, but if not, I'll take a raincheck." 

"Listen, Ted, I gotta go. I got this new case -- " 

"Oh yeah, sure, I understand. Talk to you later." 

"You bet." 

I breathe a sigh of relief. For some reason, I find it a feat anymore to talk to him, to any of them. 

_"...just to smell her ashes..."_

Did I lose someone? 

I think, in a way, we all did. 

* 

TBC... 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: 

"Let's talk about your dreams." 

"What do you want to know?" 

"What did you dream about last night?" 

I pause and intertwine my hands, distracting myself from the piercing gaze of the therapist. 

"Annie Miller." 

"She was one of your cases?" 

A case. That's what she's defined as now. When you're missing, you're still a person, still half-there; there's still a chance that you'll be found. When you're dead, you're a case, a victim, a little statistic on a pie graph. 

"Yes." 

"And what happened in this dream?" 

"She asked me why I didn't save her. Why I let her die." 

"And what did you say?" 

"Nothing. I don't have an answer. I wish I did." 

"You think it's your fault she died?" 

"Yes." 

"Why?" 

"If I had -- I don't know, maybe if I had picked up that home movie, the one with Mr. Brandini -- maybe if I had picked that one up sooner and played it, we would've figured it out before -- before he killed her. Then Annie could've told her mom." 

"Told her what?" 

"That she loved her." 

"Why do you think she didn't already?" 

I think of my own mother, my less-than-perfect childhood, my struggles with adolescence and rebellion and taking things for granted. 

"They loved each other, but they -- they had typical mother-daughter spats, and it wasn't addressed all that much, by Annie, at least. I think she would've liked to tell her mother that, just one last time." 

"Why do you think people guard their true feelings like this?" 

"Because we don't always see what's in front of us. It's easier to hide. Then you -- you miss it when it's gone." 

I think of Jack, as I often do; think of his feelings for me, complicated as they are right now. I wonder if he would miss me, if thinks of me. Had I died, when I die, maybe I'll just be another agent who died in the line of duty. Still, there's something to be said for that. For all it's worth, maybe there's more glory in death than life. 

At least you get remembered. 

* 

"How did we get here, Samantha?" 

The pasta's cold as I twist it absently around my fork, never bothering to bring it to my mouth. My wine glass is half-empty, my clothes are hanging loose, and there's a little bit of loneliness swimming in my eyes. 

"I don't know, Jack." 

I don't have the answers anymore. Maybe I never did. 

"It's final, now -- our divorce. I uh, I feel relieved actually." 

There's this invisible line where his ring used to be and I think maybe that scar will never fade away. 

"Did you like the spaghetti?" 

"Yeah, I did, I just haven't had much of an appetite lately." 

A look of worry passes through his eyes for a moment and leaves just as quickly. His impromptu dinner surprised me as I stumbled through the door with mail and groceries piled awkwardly atop my arms. I admit I liked it, but I keep running through reasons this shouldn't be happening and ways I can stop it and how exactly I'm supposed to say goodbye. 

I can't hold back any longer and the question falls from my lips. 

"What do you want, exactly, Jack?" 

He pauses imperceptibly, a slight stiffness comes over him, and I wonder if holding on would be easier than saying goodbye. 

His fingers go to his ring that isn't there; his eyes search for an answer in the unforgiving night; his heart looks for a way in and a way out and a reason to leave, and a reason to stay. 

It doesn't come. 

It never does. 

"I want -- I want you, Sam. Don't you want me?" 

"I wish it were that simple." 

"Why can't it be?" 

I've been wishing for this conversation since he turned me away on that bench so long ago. Now that it's here, I wish for anything but. 

"Because I don't know what to do, what to think. What can possibly happen here, Jack? We get married, we have kids...we grow old together? I don't --" 

"I'm still here, Sam. I'm not going anywhere." 

But you did once. You left me. 

"Sam, are you okay?" 

I died, Jack. 

Not the traditional way, of course. Maybe that would've made things easier. But somewhere between the bookstore, the gun, Barry Mashburn, the lonely hospital room, and the cold spaghetti tonight, I started to lose myself. 

"Yeah, Jack, I'm fine. I just -- I just need some time, okay? We've got this case, I'm going to therapy -- everything's going to work out." 

He smiles and brushes a kiss against my cheek as he turns to leave. 

Everything's going to work out. 

I wish I believed that. 

* 

"This guy's a real piece of work, you know?" 

"What, you mean aside from robbing a bank and allowing his wife to be kidnapped?" 

"Yeah, aside from that." 

He's crunching on those damn peanuts and I can only pray this ransom drop ends quickly. 

My hands are shaking as just the mention of a 'ransom drop' haunts my dreams along with the dead, the missing, and the long forgotten faces that stare at me all night, begging me to save them. 

I run my hands against the barrell of my gun, a finger trembling against the trigger. It's cold and unfamiliar and I remember the feel of my own bullet piercing unnaturally through skin and muscle and bone. 

It will always be there, trapped in my leg, trapped in my mind. I'll never escape that day. 

Jack's form is perfectly hidden in the shadows as the welcoming night encases the alley. Mr. Beckett stands unsurely between the dumpsters, clutching the bag of money nervously between his hands. 

The noise of a car pulling up grabs our attention and I see Jack move closer towards us as Danny moves forward, gun drawn. Martin sits up straighter, tossing his bag of peanuts away, and grips the steering wheel. It's hard to make out distinct forms in the darkness, plus the distance doesn't help. 

I see Mrs. Beckett take tentative steps towards her husband as he hands the bag smoothly to the perps. Then all hell breaks loose as one of them pulls out a gun and shoots Mr. Beckett, Danny jogs up to them, and suddenly Mrs. Beckett finds herself in a stranglehold with a gun to her head and Danny leveling his just above her chest. 

Jack motions us out of the car and I can't shake this slight terror rising through my chest as I'm forced to pull my gun out for the first time since it was used against me that hot summer day months ago. 

"Put the gun down, sir, you don't want to do this." 

Jack brings his gun level with Danny's, as well as Martin and I walk around the right as my gaze falls on the bleeding shell of Mr. Beckett. 

Two of the perps suddenly take off and Jack motions Danny and Martin to follow. Their bright yellow FBI jackets fade away and I brace myself for the sound of gunfire. Something's going to happen here, now. Something I'm suddenly afraid of. 

Before I can blink, Jack fires off a shot into the guy, the sound rings in my ears. The guy falls and Jack catches Stephanie Beckett. A sound bumps the dumpsters and I catch a glimpse of yet another perp as he stumbles on the ground, frightened. 

"Sam, get him!" 

I almost hesitate, to bring up a reason a rationale to him that will make him realize why I simply can't move from this spot, but my legs move of their own volition and I soon catch up to him. What I don't anticipate, however, is the gun he slowly brings from under his coat as his body swerves slowly around. 

I see his lifeless eyes through the ski mask and I wonder if this breath will be the last I take. I turn to gaze at Jack who can't seem to comprehend why I'm standing there, unmoving. It happens too fast, I can't react and I think, in that second, if this time, I'll remember to die. 

* 

TBC... 


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks sooooo much for the feedback, you guys totally rock! Enjoy! 

Chapter Five: 

There's a blackness like nothing I've ever felt. I always thought, like most people, that there would be a light, a tunnel perhaps, and maybe, funnily, St. Peter greeting me at those pearly gates with a disapproving look as his quill scratches for hours roughly against the parchment, weighing the wages of my sins. 

It never comes, none of it. There's just that blackness and these muffled sounds all around me, distant and blurry. 

A body slams into mine, cold and hard, and I hear that gunfire I've been bracing myself for all night, all these long months since that first one imprinted itself on my heart. 

"Samantha?" 

A hand on my cheek, warm with blood and cold with fear. 

"Sam, answer me, look at me, come on." 

There's a desperation in his voice and I start to think maybe I've cheated it once again. Maybe I'll be running from it my entire life. 

"Jack?" 

It's more of a croak really, but he must be satisfied enough because I feel myself being pulled into those strong arms, though I can barely move beyond allowing myself to be cradled awkwardly against his rapidly beating heart. 

The first sight to greet me is the lifeless body of the perp I was convinced had ended my life. Danny stands over him, gun drawn, and still slightly tense as though there was a second that passed through him where he'd wondered if he'd been too late. 

"Samantha?" He asks with this almost frightened innocence, as though he can't bear one more loss. 

"I'm okay, Danny." 

I'm truly not sure of that right now, but if false reassurances will erase the desperate worry emanating between the three of us right now, I'll let the lie slip easily from my lips. Jack's rocking me now and I almost wish he'll never let go. 

Almost. 

The eyes stare at me behind the mask, lifeless still as they were mere minutes ago. I turn my head to see Martin gently talking to Stephanie Beckett as she lies frightened on a gurney, her eyes never leaving the body bag containing her husband. 

She lost something tonight, beyond just the physical presence of her husband, that I don't think she'll ever get back. 

I feel the same way 

And so, I make a mental note to speak to her and I allow sleep to beckon me as Jack whispers away my pain temporarily. 

It's enough for now. 

* 

I find myself seeing solemn finalities in everyday things anymore. I don't know why, exactly, it's just there, this unwavering conviction in the back of my mind that today might be the last time I wash my dishes and flip casually through the television, cry unknowingly at those simple songs I hear far too infrequently. 

I wonder if maybe tomorrow, today, this very hour or minute, might be the last time I look at him, really look at him and hear him and feel him. Not just because I wait for death sometimes at night when the house is quiet, but because I also wonder if maybe the next time I see him and breathe him in he'll look at me and realize he really doesn't want me, doesn't need me, and just like that, I'll be nothing more than dust in the wind. 

Maybe that's how it will be. 

Simple and quick and so completely resolute...that finality, that haunting finality I think about in that space between my dreams and reality. 

Maybe that's how it will be. 

Maybe that's how it will end. 

Maybe he'll realize love was a parting glance between us just as I realize I can do nothing but stare at him as eternity passes me by. 

* 

There's degrees of pain and grief, you see. Sometimes I think that's what separates us the most, because our humanity, our sensitivity, even our perseverance really shines through in the face of what seems to be the loss of nothing less than our very lives. 

Sometimes I think we really live when there's death all around us. 

Stephanie Beckett, I think, is one of those people who falls apart on the outside, while pretending they're okay on the inside. 

Me, on the other hand, I fall quietly apart as I pretend to be that little bit of all right we all keep tucked away for safe-keeping. 

"Did it hurt, Samantha?" 

Her voice is harsh and raspy, struggling to find a positive outcome to this whole situation. 

"What?" 

"When you were shot -- did it hurt?" 

Her eyes beg for an answer that will quiet her nightmares because all she'll see for the rest of her life is the body of her husband who, maybe once, shared a completely human innocence himself. I see it in the photographs on the wall and I wish, for a moment, that I could've met that man beneath the glass. So she begs me in that way she has because, for once, I can give her a peace I haven't been able to give anyone for a long time. 

"No, no, it didn't hurt, Stephanie. I kind of went numb, it was just a blur." 

"Good." 

Hollow and broken. "Good." 

Almost a whisper now, as though she hears it, and believes it on the surface, but part of her never truly will. 

"He felt no pain, Stephanie." 

But he did. 

And so did Anwar, and Annie, and Nicole, and Andy, and on and on until the names and faces are countless. 

They all lost something; their lives, their innocence, their faith. 

They, like me, lost themselves; completely or semi, but nonetheless, there's a hole within me, within them. 

I'm sorry. 

* 

TBC... 


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks, as always, to my fellow Maple Streeters! You guys rock. To Kelly, for everything. 

Chapter 6: 

It's funny how things change. In passing reflection, there's little room between the passage of one second into another, but the course of an entire life can change in that tiny span. It takes a second to blink; a second to swallow and smile, and turn around. It takes a second for a tear to fall. 

And it takes a mere second, I suppose, to live and die, and simply become a whole person, to lose yourself in that little space of oblivion where memories fade, dreams die, and hope is that little thread of impossibility lingering like a distant star. 

It takes a second to forget all that matters. 

Sometimes I think it would take a second to leave him. 

It would take a second to love him. 

And it would take an eternity to ever truly say goodbye. 

* 

"You're holding onto something, Samantha. What is it?" 

I don't know yet. 

"The gunshot wound? Barry Mashburn? Your childhood? This man you love?" 

"I'm holding on to them." 

"Who?" 

"Everyone." 

"How can you remember all of them, Samantha? There's been so many --" 

Sometimes I wish I could forget. 

"I don't know." 

"And this man you love? What's holding you back from giving yourself completely to him?" 

"Maybe I'm afraid." 

"Afraid?" 

"Of what will happen. Of what won't happen." 

"Do you need him?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you want him?" 

"Yes." 

"Then shouldn't this be easy for you?" 

"Yes." 

"What's the problem then?" 

"I think maybe I love him too much." 

And that's why I can't have him and why I can't ever turn away. 

* 

There was a time once when I would've jumped willingly into his arms if he need only ask. Maybe it should've been harder than that, and maybe it was just as it should've been. I sit for hours pondering the delicate intricacies of our entire affair and subsequent relationship, and the purgatory we're suddenly trapped in right now. 

I suppose what I'm looking for more than anything right now, what I need like the air I breathe, are answers and truths and half-lies so comfortably whispered I can believe them too. It's all I need. I need some peace and resolution. I need him. 

I need to hold onto him and say goodbye to them. 

Then maybe it will fall into place. 

I just haven't figured out how to get there yet. 

Because I love him too much; because I can't let go. 

* 

"Sam, what do you want exactly?" 

He's throwing my own question back at me and I pause. 

His hands are soft and strong, weathered and gentle. They're a contrast in themselves, just like he himself is at times. Fierce and passionate and firm; calm and and loving and tender. 

"Jack --" 

Where am I going? 

What am I doing? 

"Jack, I want -- I want my life. I want to live." 

"What's stopping you?" 

There's a million questions and no answers and I hear my sins being calculated again on that aged parchment as my soul is judged before God and Jack and my own ghosts. There was a time when it all came so easy -- living and loving. 

But the last few months, those faces come to me at night and day, in dreams and reality and between every inhale and exhale. 

Because somewhere along the way, I forgot to live. 

* 

TBC... 


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Well, we've come to the end again. It's been a great ride and I'm sad to see it end. I can't thank all of you at Maple Street and everyone who's reviewed my story enough. You all are just wonderful!! Thanks for hanging in there and enjoy this last and final chapter. 

Chapter 7: 

* 

Sometimes I think I'm nothing more than dust and God's breath and my whole existence was perhaps a fluke, an experiment even, but rather than be thrown away, I was put upon the solid earth, beneath the hovering clouds. 

We all have a worth, a value, a purpose. Many, and I suppose, most of us even, hope to make something of ourselves, make a lasting impression. 

It happens though that we tend to drift, to lose sight of those things we always say really matter when we have to write essays and autobiographies and describe ourselves to people so we sound important and worthwhile. It happens that those things, those important things, become little things, and soon, maybe...nothing. 

Until we become, in fact, nothing more than that dust we started as, blown away in the breeze. We fade into the background, blend into the seamless stitches in the fabric of time. We become what we never wanted, what we always hoped we would never be. 

We become forgotten. 

And all our life scatters away. 

And that is all we'll ever be. 

I want to be worth more. I want to be remembered. 

* 

"It was her birthday today." 

There's a moment after she says this where I fight to breathe. 

"Mrs. Miller --" 

"Samantha, I never -- I never told you how much it meant that you -- you were there. That you were trying to save my Annie." 

"I was just doing my job." 

It's funny, that expression. _Just doing my job_. As though it makes everything all right. I've heard people use that line in clumsy defense of a mistake they made, knowing within that it was wrong, but wanting to be safe on the surface. 

I use that line when I have nothing left to say; when all the words you could think to use become small and obsolete. 

Because you reach a point in life where there are just no words left to say. Annie Miller was and is, still, one of the points. Just as I suppose...all of them are. Because I remember their names like they were an old friend or relative perhaps that I haven't seen since that Fourth of July barbecue back in 1983 when I was toothless and naive and just a little touch of idealistic in a town where people stayed or people escaped. There was no middle ground. 

There isn't now. 

This life -- this job -- there's nothing simple about it. You can't be good at it, truly good at it, unless you give yourself completely to it. If you don't, if you get used to it and shrug off the disappointment and the pain, become immune to it, then there's nothing left to fight for. 

But when you give yourself wholly, it fuses to you, all of it. 

You have to keep going, you have to make sure there's always something to fight for. 

I don't know what else to say. I just don't know. So I think of Annie, of how this birthday, this day, to most other people, means just another workday, just another school day, just another day to wake up and muddle through and make it through to the next; I think of how it will never again be that simple day for me that it once was. This day won't be November 7 anymore; this day will be Annie's birthday. 

_September 11; Nicole Mashburn, Ted's cousin, the people, the faces that lay buried in ash mere minutes away. _

October 17; Becky Radowski 

October 24; Andy Deaver 

November 21; Anwar Samir 

January 30; The day we finally found Sean Collins 

May 8; Barry Mashburn, Ted, Fran, Libby... 

"Mrs. Miller?" 

I pause, not quite sure how to word this, not sure how it will come out and how she'll react and how it will mean what it never can. 

"Tell Annie I said 'Happy Birthday' -- when you see her." 

_November 7_. 

The day Annie officially became immortal. 

She'll never age, never cry or laugh or even fall in love. 

She'll never be more than that carefree girl waving happily at the video camera to an unknown audience. 

She's 14 years old and she'll never say goodbye. 

I'm 32 years old and still trying to say hello. 

* 

There's a point you reach when you realize enough is enough. Maybe I've been standing still since it happened because I never felt I had anywhere left to go. Maybe I have to say goodbye to the past; always remember it, but leave it there. 

You can't continue living until you bury the dead. 

So I find myself here, in front of the place I've been trying to escape for six months. It looks the same from the outside; the same blinds, the same golden letters displaying the name, the same bell jingle as you step inside. 

I hesitate a moment on the threshold and the memories assault me in rapid succession as I propel myself slowly forward. 

I look for a stain or some reminder that I had once lain on the carpet, bleeding, waiting for a release. I look for a reminder of a death I felt would come around the shelf with all the books about Russian history and Alexander the Great. 

The carpet's unblemished, however, free from that marker of near-death. It smells differently now. It's cool inside, not the awful, sweltering heat of mid-afternoon on the eight of May that I remember still so vividly. I exit just as quickly and quietly, without so much as a glance in my direction from the unattentive employee distractedly reading a magazine as he leans against the counter. 

It's funny how things change. 

* 

When you move past something, any major event or turning point in your life, it's not a gradual departure. You don't just leap off, you kind of build your wings as you near the edge of the cliff. I'm not ready to jump off just yet, but tonight, the sky doesn't seem so dark, and for once, I'm not afraid to take that first step. 

He's quiet and I don't know whether I like it much. Sometimes I appreciate it, and other times, like now, when his face is impassive, I worry about his thoughts. Maybe he's decided to put the past behind him as well. 

So I sit next to him on that couch where we've come together and drifted apart in my own mind more times than I care to remember, and hazard a question I'm not sure I'm ready to hear the answer to yet. 

"Are you still mine, Jack?" 

His sweatered arm reaches behind my neck, his fingers playing lightly against my skin and twirling a stray strand of hair between his fingers. A smile, genuine and slightly mischievious, forms around his lips and he finally shows a hint of something in his previously indifferent face. 

"I always was." 

I had never known what real love was until I met Jack Malone. 

I have never known it since. 

* 

It's easy to forget the simple act of living when our own lives become so routine and predictable. It seems only when times of struggle arise that we face the challenge and look within ourselves to realize our full potential, our full worth. 

It's easy to forget the value of the lives around us, when their faces become so normal and ingrained that they too, are part of the daily routine. We laugh, we joke, we cry, we smile, we live, and love, and forget to take a look around once in a while. We forget the value of a kiss, a hug, a sweet profession of love whispered across the barriers of right and wrong and the social constraints that often divide us. 

We forget to be who we are. 

It's easy to forget what really matters when we get so consumed by the petty mishaps of normal existence. 

It's easy to forget life in the broadest sense. 

Happiness is love. Love is life. And life -- life is best remembered. 

* 

[ end ] 


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